Missed Chances
by Acherubis
Summary: Nathaniel reflects about his feelings for the warden commander. Rated M for language just to be on the safe side.


**Missed Chances**

Night has fallen over Vigil's Keep. The infirmary is quiet and almost empty. There is only one bed occupied, has been for almost a week and so has been the chair beside that bed.

Nathaniel did not leave her side ever since they brought her in. His eyes are burning from lack of sleep and his muscles are tense and stiff from sitting there for too long but that does not keep him from watching over her. He will not go anywhere until she wakes, until he knows she'll be alright.

He feels guilty for what happened to her. If he had accompanied her into the Deep Roads, maybe he would have been able to prevent her from getting hurt. He would have at least done a better job than that thrice-cursed mage, of that Nate is very sure. Anders is a healer. He's capable of patching people back up but he knows shit about keeping them safe in the first place. If Nate had been there with her, that Hurlock wouldn't have gotten even close. If he had been with her, she'd be sleeping in her own bed now and not in a sickbed.

_With that mage beside her instead of you. _

He stands from the chair, suddenly restless, and starts pacing the room. The thought comes unbidden, uninvited and he tries to think of something else. Jealousy won't get him anywhere. It is pointless and unhealthy and it won't change a thing. She made her choice and that choice had not been in his favor. And how could it have been? He never gave her reason to think he'd wish to be more than a friend, fool that he was. There is no one to blame but himself.

He had his chances to tell her how he feels but instead of taking at least one of them, he made up excuses why a relationship with her could never work. Because she was too young. Because it was just a crush that would soon pass. Because she was reckless and stubborn and too much of a handful. He had been clinging to those excuses like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood because if he admitted that they were just that, he would have to admit to the truth and the truth was that he was afraid. Afraid that his father's words would prove right after all.

_So soft. So compassionate. So much like your sister._

The words still hurt. He has come to hate his father but still, those words tear at his pride and make him want to prove that he is capable to live up to the dead Arl's expectations. And he knows perfectly well what those expectations would have been concerning a suitable wife for his eldest son. Nate can almost hear the man's disdainful voice reprimanding him.

_She's not worth your attention. A simple merchant's brat is not good enough for a Howe. Go fuck her and get her out of your system and don't whine after her like a dog in heat. If you are looking for a wife, I can name you at least ten young, noble ladies who would die to marry the future Arl of Amaranthine._

And so instead of trusting his heart, he once more trusted his head because it is always so much easier for him to listen to the voice of reason. That is a lesson he has learned well, thanks to his father. In his father's world, there was no place for feelings. Emotions were for women and cowards. All that mattered were cruelty, calculation and determination. All attributes his son was lacking as Rendon never got tired to point out.

With a groan, he runs a hand over his tired eyes. No matter how much he tries to free himself of his father's shadow, somehow it always catches up with him. It is like Rendon is still there, pulling the strings in his favor and making Nate's life miserable. If he could only shake that influence once and for all…

Sighing, he returns to her bedside and sits down in his chair once more. Like so many times before, he reaches out and takes her too cold, limp hand in his, kissing it gently. It is all he can do, kissing her hand, being there for her, wondering what might have been if he could have worked up the courage to tell her how he feels.

Suddenly, she moans and that limp hand twitches, closes around his and the little action instantly has him fully awake and on his feet. He sees her lips move even though no sound comes out and he leans closer, runs his other hand over her pale cheek in a soothing gesture. She did not move once for at least two days and he prays and hopes that this means the worst is over, that she is waking and he kisses her hand once more, squeezing it a little.

"Wake up," he whispers close to her ear, "please, wake up."

Her head turns, nuzzles into his hand. Her lips move again and this time, she manages a single word.

"Anders…"

It cuts into him like a thousand needles and he closes his eyes as jealousy and anger wash over him again like a tidal wave. Anders is not here, has not once set foot into this room since she was brought in. The mage has preferred to barricade himself in his rooms and nurture his guilt and self-doubts instead of tending to his lover. Anders has not been the one sitting by her side, watching, waiting, worrying. He has not been the one dressing and redressing that dreadful wound, the one soothing her fever-dreams, no, that has been he, Nathaniel.

He wishes he could yell the truth at her, tell her that she has made the wrong choice and that _he_ is the one who cares for her, worries for her, loves her. But of course he doesn't. He swallows the words like a bitter pill, keeps his feelings hidden as he always does and forces himself to smile when her eyelids flutter open. Because he doesn't want to hurt her. Because she's with another man and he doesn't have the right to be jealous or angry or hurt. Because excuses are still easier to make than confessions.

"No, it's me, Nathaniel," he says quietly and just like that, another chance passes and leaves him wondering what might have been…


End file.
